Missing D7 Scenes: Season Five
by Laura Schiller
Summary: From her first day of motherhood to his first broken heart.
1. Night

Missing D7 Scenes: Season Five

By Laura Schiller

Based on Star Trek: Voyager

Copyright: Paramount

_1. Night_

Holodeck One was currently a library – a two-tiered, leather-furnished, magnificently old-fashioned intellectual haunt, with marble busts of Plato and Shakespeare on the shelves (and Surak, as a joke). Shelves and stairs were made of gleaming, polished wood; a smell of dust, leather and floor soap was in the air. Seven of Nine sat in a tight ball in an armchair close to the fireplace, watching the Doctor sing with Audrey Hepburn.

The program was _My Fair Lady_, adapted from the 20th-century film, and Seven had emphatically refused to play Eliza. _("Ah well, I suppose not. The thought of you with a Cockney accent does rather stretch the imagination.") _Instead, she had opted to watch the performance in non-interactive mode.

"The rain … in Spain … stays … mainly … in the plain," said Eliza, breaking the silence. The impact of the moment was felt everyone in the room – Professor Higgins (the Doctor, with his own face but an 1890's costume), Colonel Pickering, and even Seven, who found the program as irrelevant as all fiction and was mainly here because she had nothing else to do. The sentence, a phonetic exercise for practicing the "a" sound instead of "aye", was Eliza's first sentence in perfect upper-class English, and after the whole agonizing process of talking through marbles, making a flame sputter with "h's", and other such nonsensical endeavors, it was a breakthrough to celebrate.

Higgins and Pickering lifted their heads from the sofa backs.

"By George, she's got it!" exclaimed Higgins, in a British accent as rich and elegant as that of the characters.

"The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain!" sang Eliza, triumphantly bouncing to her feet.

Cue the music – a tango, as bright and energetic as Eliza's laughing brown eyes. Her teachers whirled her through the room, making her green dress flare, and at one point she jumped onto a chair and flourished a red handkerchief at the Colonel, who pretended to be a bull, holding up his fingers like horns by his head. The atmosphere of joy was infectious, and Seven didn't even notice the smile spreading over her face.

When Professor Higgins actually caught her eye, winked, and held out his hand to her, she was startled into letting him pull her up before realizing what she did.

"I am in non-interactive mode, Doctor," she protested, as they joined Eliza and the Colonel in careening through the room.

"Exactly, which is why I'm the only one who can see you."

"I cannot dance."

"That's not the point," said the Doctor, dipping Seven so abruptly that a strand of her hair flew loose. "The point is to have fun, and if you tell me fun is irrelevant, I shall drop you like a hot coal."

Seven did not consider this a threat, as he was holding her directly above the plush leather sofa. She was just gathering up a witty comeback when a very amused, very American voice made them all stop in their tracks.

"Computer, freeze program. Whoa, Seven, Doc – am I _interrupting_ something?"

"Yes," said Seven, at the same time the Doctor exclaimed, "_No_!"

Tom Paris smirked as they pulled apart and drew themselves up to attention.

"Whatever you may _think_, Lieutenant," said the Doctor, sounding haughtier than ever with that British accent, "The holodeck is _not_ your private property. You may wait your turn like every other member of this crew."

Paris's smirk grew until he let out a snort of laughter. "Hey, have you been messing with your program again? Jolly good, sah! Eh, wot? Well, what-_evah_ you're up to, Doc, _I've_ been waiting my turn for twenty minutes. I got Satan's Robot to defeat, remember? The one you interrupted last time?"

The Doctor flinched. "Computer, time."

"Twenty-three hours, twenty minutes," said the computer.

"My apologies, Mr. Paris," said the Doctor. "I don't suppose you'd consider joining us for a bit of _cultured_ entertainment instead?"

"Hey!" Tom pointed a reproving finger at his sometime commanding officer. "Don't knock _Captain Proton_. It's – "

" – a study in sociology, yes, yes." The Doctor raised his eyes disdainfully to the ceiling. "Computer, end program."

The library, Eliza and Pickering vanished, replaced by the metallic hologrid. Seven was just about to follow the Doctor outside when Tom touched her arm and gave her a friendly grin.

"Hey, Seven, why don't you join me? You can help me save the galaxy from Chaotica."

Seven glanced from him to the Doctor, whose frown intensified the moment Paris pronounced Seven's name.

"Can't you get Ensign Kim to do it?" he grumbled.

"He's on the night shift, remember?" said Tom. "With his clarinet. Could give you a stomach ache with all that wailing. C'mon, Seven, I'm bored. Help me out."

She concluded that he must be very bored indeed if he was asking _her_, the last agreeable companion on the ship apart from Tuvok, to play a holoprogram with him. Perhaps B'Elanna was upset with him again.

She looked over at the Doctor again. He was always after her to socialize more. Besides … if she was honest with herself, she would have to admit that even a 'Captain Proton' program sounded more appealing than going to Astrometrics, where she had absolutely nothing to do. There were no stellar phenomena to scan in this Void. For the same reason, she was avoiding any place with viewports – the mess hall, the bridge. The sight of all that relentless black unnerved her more than she cared to admit.

"I will comply," she said.

"All _right!_" Tom smacked her on the shoulder, grinning again. The Doctor, however, instead of looking proud of her, twisted his wide mouth into an odd expression she couldn't read.

"By George, she's got it," he muttered, barely audible.

"Huh?"

"Never mind." He waved away Tom's question with a careless hand. "Computer, reconfigure the EMH's vocal processor to standard, and beam it to Sickbay."

With a beep, the Doctor disappeared.


	2. Drone

_2. Drone_

_(Also published as "Beloved One")_

The funeral of the 29th-century Borg drone known as One was held in Voyager's docking bay. A Starfleet flag was draped around his coffin; Seven, the Doctor, Captain Janeway, Neelix and Lieutenant Torres were the only crewmembers attending. The rest (including Ensign Mulcahy, whose DNA One shared) had stayed away, most likely out of lingering revulsion and fear. The five people made a rather feeble honor guard as the whistle blew.

According to Starfleet tradition, the Captain – solemnly dignified in her scarlet dress uniform – gave a speech.

"We are gathered here today to celebrate the short, but remarkable life of an extraordinary individual. Even though I only met One a few times, it is clear to me that he posessed not only courage – the courage to sacrifice his life to save Voyager from the Borg – but also an irrepressible curiosity, even a sense of awe at the world around him. He embodied the spirit of learning and exploration that lives in us all.

"We will honor him by keeping his memory alive, in our minds and in our hearts – the memory of a man who begun his life as a random convergence of technologies, but ended it … a hero. Thank you, One. We will not forget."

The Captain stepped back, allowing Neelix to take her place. Seven kept her head low as she listened to the Talaxian's kind-hearted incoherence; she did not want to look anybody in the eye. As the person closest to One, she should have made the next speech after the Captain; however, she had declined.

The Doctor caught her eye and raised an inquiring eyebrow at her, jerking his head in the direction of the coffin as if to ask why she wasn't saying anything. She glared; for some reason, that gesture was the last straw that made her eyes overflow. He went over to her and – in a startling, but not entirely unwelcome gesture – put his arm around her.

Her internal sensors couldn't help but register that the Doctor felt as warm as a flesh-and-blood man. She leaned into him ever so slightly.

"Comfort, Seven," he whispered in her ear. "It's what every person needs when they've lost a loved one."

"Why do you claim that I loved him?" she whispered, hastily wiping away tears with her steel-laced hand.

"I could see it in your face."

She remembered that moment in sickbay, when One lay dying on the biobed. He had stubbornly kept a forcefield around himself, preventing the Doctor from operating on him, his childlike eyes – so out of place in the chalky features of a drone – fixed on Seven. _'I was never meant to be … as long as I exist, you are in danger.'_ Because once the Borg had learned of his advanced technology, they would never stop trying to assimilate him, and _Voyager_ to boot. Seven understood his reasons; that didn't make it hurt any less.

She turned to the Doctor now; his hazel eyes were compassionate, but firm. Neelix had finished speaking; there was a silence.

"You need to say something," said the Doctor, softly, but still audible to the others. "You need to let your feelings out. It will hurt a little less, I promise."

He nudged her gently forward and she moved to the head of the coffin, facing four people – The Captain and the Doctor, her dearest friends; Torres, who disliked her; and Neelix, who hardly knew her, but had taken an unaccountable liking to One.

What to say?

She looked down at the blue fabric of the flag and thought of One's eyes, looking up at her trustingly from the biobed.

"The first time I saw One," she began, her voice still unsteady from her tears, "He was an infant inside a maturation chamber. I knew that the safest option for Voyager would have been to terminate him – " Neelix looked shocked, Torres grim " – however, instead I chose to follow the Captain's orders and instruct One as an individual. I do not regret that decision. On the contrary, it has been … the most memorable and rewarding experience of my life."

A sob escaped before she could catch it. The Captain silently reached into her uniform pocket and handed her a tissue; Seven wiped her face and blew her nose, fiercely embarrassed but determined to carry on.

"Everything the Captain said about One is true," she said. "He was brave and loyal, and his potential was infinite. He assimilated enormous amounts of information within a lifespan of a single day. He saved us all from assimilation, at the expense of his own life. These achievements are … they have made me proud.

"We should have had more time together … he should have been given the chance to fulfill his potential and learn as much as he wanted. It is unfair. However, I have learned that life is seldom fair," with a sardonic look which would have worked better without the tearstains on her face. "Therefore I shall try to remember the positive aspects of this experience, rather than the negative."

She took a deep breath and placed her hands on the coffin, although she knew perfectly well he couldn't feel it. It was time to say what she should have said during those last precious seconds in Sickbay.

"You were like a son to me, One," she said. "I love you … Goodbye."

The Captain's eyes shone. Torres and Neelix looked markedly subdued. The Doctor held out his arms to Seven and, abandoning public decorum completely, she held on to him as if she would never let go. The Captain joined them in a group hug, perhaps thinking of the children she herself had never had.

"That was beautiful, Seven," she rasped, her alto voice deeper than ever in sorrow and sympathy for her young friend. "He would have been glad to hear it."

Seven had been practising a certain aspect of humanity only two days before; losing One had made her feel as if she never wanted to do it again. However, surrounded and supported by love as she was now, Seven found herself doing one more thing in tribute to the memory of her son.

She thought of his insatiable curiosity – _'I wish to assimilate more information!' _– his quirk of naming everything he passed, from bulkheads to people; his flawless politeness; the time he had voraciously sucked information through their neural link, but stopped immediately when she told him it hurt; the time she had coaxed him into his regeneration alcove, when just before falling asleep, he had told her _'Thank you'._

She thought of him and smiled.


	3. Extreme Risk

_3. Extreme Risk_

B'Elanna Torres lying prone on a biobed, in a shapeless blue sickbay gown, was a disconcerting sight. She looked so much smaller without her uniform, her sweeping hand gestures and the imminent threat of her volatile temper. It was like seeing the warp core shut down.

"How are you feeling, Lieutenant?" asked Seven, hovering awkwardly by the bed, feeling the absurdity of the human platitude the moment it came out of her mouth.

She fully expected Torres to berate her for asking such a stupid question, but the chief engineer merely blinked at her and said, "Fine," in a voice as colorless as her appearance.

"How were you damaged?"

"On the holodeck."

The Doctor, sticking his head out of his office, chimed in: "Our Klingon warrior decided to simulate a hull breach on the new shuttlecraft while disengaging the safety protocols." He was using his 'surrounded-by-idiot-organics' voice, complete with an eye roll and wagging head, the one which never failed to earn a sharp reply from his engineer.

"That's about right," said Torres. "We're having a microfracture problem. I decided to test whether it was a fatal flaw or not. I guess it was."

Seven remembered how, over the past few days, Torres had behaved as if the construction of their new shuttle – the pet project of her own lover, Paris – had nothing to do with her. She had developed a habit of standing in corners with her arms folded, more taciturn and unapproachable than Seven herself.

"If anyone's got a microfracture problem here, it's you," muttered the Doctor as he typed away on the diagnostic panel of B'Elanna's biobed.

Torres closed her eyes without saying a word.

Seven decided to make herself scarce. Her presence was obviously not helping. However, as she passed by the Doctor's glass-walled cubicle of an office on her way outside, he gestured to her to come in.

"May I ask what prompted this … visit?" he asked.

The bright, curious look in his hazel eyes made her feel awkward again. "Lesson Nine: Tea and Sympathy. I was … paying a condolence call."

"Well!" He lowered his voice. "That was very kind of you … but I admit I'm a little surprised. You don't even like Lieutenant Torres."

"Correction, Doctor. She does not like me." Seven looked through the glass at the limp blue figure of the woman who had been her greatest obstacle to acceptance on _Voyager_. "I consider Torres a highly competent engineer and a valuable colleague. Her condition is … disturbing."

Seven, as a former Borg, was a creature of habit. She liked things to stay the same. Torres' temper, irksome as it was, was a part of the daily routine Seven had come to depend on. The absence of it made Seven queasy, as if she were looking at the ghost of the woman she knew.

"Why did she disengage the safety protocols? Why would she deliberately injure herself?"

With a stab of pain and grief, Seven thought of One, her Borg son who had essentially killed himself in this very Sickbay by refusing the Doctor's treatment. He had done it for her, for the whole crew. Surely Torres didn't have reason as valid as that?

"Don't ask me, Seven," said the Doctor, shaking his head again, this time with more sorrow than contempt. "Even I have my limits, and understanding a mad stunt like this is one of them."

Come to think of it, Torres did look a little like Seven had felt. For several days after One's death, Seven had moved around the ship in a sort of haze, speaking when spoken to. It was his memorial service, the speech she had made and the tears she had shed, which had finally unlocked her pent-up emotions and allowed her to begin the hard task of moving on.

Someone ought to do that for Torres, thought Seven. But who?

"Has the Captain spoken to her? Or Lieutenant Paris?" Seven had great faith in her mentor; if she could redeem a Borg (two, counting One), surely she could talk a recalcitrant half-Klingon out of whatever issues she was having.

"Both, I'm afraid. She's not cooperating."

"Commander Chakotay?" Seven persisted.

"I don't know," said the Doctor, looking up with a sudden spark in his eyes. "Now there's an idea."

Commander Chakotay had talked a suicidal Neelix off the transporter platform just last year, coaxed the Captain out of self-imposed isolation during their time in the Void, and was altogether the best de-facto counsellor they had. He had also known Torres longer than any other crewmember; they had been in the Maquis together.

"I shall consult him," Seven said firmly.

"Seven, don't." The Doctor stopped her leaving with a gentle hand on her shoulder. "There's no need. He's already planning to confront her."

"How do you know?" she asked, taken aback.

"Because friends help each other," he said, looking deeply into her eyes. "Without needing to be asked. It's as simple as that."


	4. In the Flesh

_4. In the Flesh_

"Sooo, Seven," said the Doctor, radiating smugness from every photon. "Was I right, or was I right?"

"Specify," said Seven, too used to him by now to bother criticizing his illogical turns of phrase.

"About looking on the bright side. This time yesterday, we were priming those feisty little nanoprobes of yours for a full-out war with Species 8472. Today, here were are, speeding away with a successful First Contact under our belts instead. Aren't you glad you were croaking doom for nothing?"

Only the Doctor, thought Seven, would refer to Borg nanoprobes – the most efficient, adaptable, and deadly micro-organisms in existence – as 'feisty'.

"I was not _croaking doom_, Doctor. I was merely addressing the unlikeliness of a non-violent outcome, given our previous history with the species, and urging the Captain to be prepared."

"Very prudent of you, to be sure. But you seem to have left one thing, or rather one _person,_ out of your calculations."

"Captain Janeway." Seven and the Doctor met each other's eyes and nodded in unison.

"Exactly. Our diplomat extraordinaire." The Doctor glowed with vicarious pride.

Seven, remembering a certain tense moment during the negotiations with Species 8472's representatives (disguised as human Starfleet officers, no less), suppressed a shudder.

"Are you aware that during a critical moment in the negotiation, while the Admiral was displaying open hostility, our _diplomat_ ordered me to disarm the nanoprobe torpedos?"

The Doctor raised his eyebrows. "You mean, as a gesture of good faith? A white flag, that sort of thing?"

"Yes."

The Doctor let out a long, low whistle. "Phew … as the Ferengi would say, she's got lobes."

"Her decision could have easily resulted in _Voyager_'s destruction."

"But surely even you agree that it was the right thing to do?"

Seven bristled at the implication that she was deliberately contrary about the Captain's command decisions. "Yes, I agree. I told the Captain as much. Unlike you, she does not gloat when proven correct."

Instead of marching off in a snit, as she had half expected, the Doctor laughed.

"Oh, come now, Seven! Where's the satisfaction in being right if you can't indulge in a bit of gloating?"

"I will not dignify that with an answer," she replied grandly, channeling Tuvok at his Vulcan best.

When she loked at the Doctor, she saw that he was looking at her strangely. His orehead was furrowed, his lips pressed tight together; he was studying her with an intensity that made her uncomfortable.

She remembered, with a slight flare of embarrassment, that perhaps her clumsy attempt at going along with his jocular mood was not working. She had little experience with banter. What had she done wrong?

"Seven … when you first came here … I said something about your eyes, do you remember? I was trying to recreate your natural color in your new ocular implant. Do you remember what I said?"

Seen felt as if she had been slapped. She took two steps back, leaning against a biobed.

"Are you testing my identity, Doctor? Do you take me for a Species 8472 impostor?"

He held up his hands placatingly. "I'm sorry! It's just, for a moment you sounded … we can never be too careful, Seven, you should know that! You do remember, don't you?"

She did. She remembered perfectly the moment when a polite, soft-spoken EMH had reached through the forcefield of her prison, held her by the shoulders, and looked into her single human eye until all her anger drained away.

"_The perfect shade,_" she quoted softly. "_Like the summer skies of Tuscany._"

The Doctor's smile was warm and familiar, like the white candles in Leonardo da Vinci's workshop.

"It's you all right," he said. "The irreplaceable Seven of Nine."

"You could have simply asked me to undergo a microellular scan," she said, not feeling nearly as insulted as she managed to sound.

"This way is more … personal, don't you think?"

Seven shook her head in an almost affectionate manner. "Holographic status aside, your currrent behavior certainly proves your identity - the irreplaceable EMH."


	5. Once Upon A Time

_5. Once Upon A Time_

"Ah, Seven!" The Doctor welcomed his colleague into Sickbay with a sweep of his arm. "Speak of the devil. I was just explaining to Naomi here how nanoprobes work."

Naomi Wildman – the small, strawberry blonde, Human/Ktarian hybrid who was _Voyager'_s youngest crewmember – slipped behind a computer console and peered out at Seven with wide, frightened eyes.

"Naomi!" the Doctor scolded. "Where are your manners? Aren't you going to say hello?"

"Hello," said the little girl, in a voice as tiny as when Seven had tried to address her in the mess hall earlier that day. She eyed Seven's cybernetic hand with trepidation, as if expecting assimilation tubules to sprout from it.

"Doctor, do you have the time to perform my weekly physical or are you occupied with babysitting?" she asked, rather more brusquely than she had intended as she found Naomi's timidity quite embarrassing.

"Oh yes, of course. Naomi dear, please come out of there. It's just Seven. There's nothing to be afraid of, see?"

The Doctor scanned Seven with exaggerated movements, whisking his tricorder up and down, looking over his shoulder at Naomi to make sure she saw that 'the Borg lady' was safe to approach.

Naomi emerged from behind the console, still wide-eyed. "Are you … _friends_ with her, Doctor?"

"Er … well … you might say that. She's my pupil, you see?"

"Like me?"

"No-o … she doesn't exactly need to learn about humanoid physiology or botany or any of that. She's a Borg. She has the knowledge of millions of assimilated species in her head, don't you, Seven? No, I give her … social lessons. How to get along with people, make small talk, etcetera."

"Is that hard for you?" asked Naomi, addressing Seven directly for the first time.

"Sometimes," she said, characteristically honest, although she had no idea how to address a child. "The Doctor informs me that I have 'come very far', but my development is clearly incomplete if I elicit fear in small children."

Naomi actually giggled. "Oh, I'm sorry, Ms. Seven. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

" 'Seven' will suffice. I accept your apology."

The Doctor looked from one female to another, obviously satisfied.

"Any word on the away team?" he whispered, walking around Seven so Naomi could not see his lips moving. His voice was inaudible to her, but still clear for Seven's superior Borg senses.

"Negative," she whispered back. One look at the shadows under her eyes told him more than her words could; she must have been working in Astrometrics night and day. Tuvok was on that away team. No wonder she was frightened. The Doctor confessed to some private anxiety for Paris as well.

"There's still hope," he whispered – then, at his usual volume for naomi's benefit, he added: "Your electrazine levels are falling again, Seven. It's high time you regenerated."

"I have work to do."

"You won't do anyone any good if you're sleep-deprived, now off to the alcove with you. Please."

Seven went, but not before casting the Doctor a glare that could strip paint.

Once Seven had left, he found Naomi looking at the door with a rather wistful expression on her little pale face.

"I never noticed before, but … she looks kinda like my mom. Except the metal parts, I mean."

The Doctor felt a rising dread. Tom Paris, Tuvok and Ensign Wildman had been in a shuttle accident and was missing in action; nobody knew if they were even still alive. Neelix had decided on keeping Naomi in the dark about the accident, so as not to frighten her. As a result, the little girl was badgering everyone she knew with questions.

"Mom is prettier, though," Naomi continued. "I wish she'd call."

The Doctor disagreed on the first count but decided, for once, to keep his opinions to himself.

"Seven and I," he began, in an effort to deliberately distract Naomi, "Are rather like those two holo-characters of yours, Flotter and Trevis. We're different – she's a Borg, I'm a hologram, she's taciturn, I'm loquacious – but we get along quite nicely for all that."

"Symbiosis," said Naomi, smiling as she used the new term he'd recently explained.

"Yes … something like that."


	6. Timeless

_6. Timeless_

2390:

A salt-and-pepper-haired Harry Kim, with grim lines around his mouth and a battered leather jacket instead of a uniform, turned away from the _Delta Flyer's_ video screen.

"There. Done. I just recorded a … a log entry, to my past self. I'm gonna pack it in with the phase corrections we're sending to Seven's cranial implant. Care for any last words yourself, Doc?"

The Doctor looked up from the cranial implant in question, currently detached from the skull of Seven's corpse. Her blue eyepiece, whose color he had once chosen so carefully to match her human eye, was still there.

Fifteen years ago, _Voyager_ had implemented a quantum slipstream drive and, instead of reaching Earth, crashed disastrously on an ice planet. Harry and Chakotay, acting as 'outriders' in a shuttle in front, had gotten home as the sole survivors. Driven by guilt (especially Harry, whose mistake had caused the crash), they had made it their life's work to change history and save the crew by using a stolen Borg temporal transmitter to send the correct phase variance to Seven in the past.

The Doctor had been offline for all those fifteen years. To him, it still felt like yesterday; the inauguration party for the new slipstream drive; B'Elanna 'christening' the warp core with champagne; Seven getting tipsy on a single glass of the same. He had escorted her to Sickbay for a shot of inaprovaline to sober her up, keeping an arm around her for support. He could remember her voice so clearly … _You have always been of enormous assistance to me, Doctor. You are my mentor … we are as one. We are as one!_ – glancing proudly around the room as if to make sure everyone heard her.

Now she was dead, as were the rest of the crew, and they were scavenging parts of her corpse. His autopsy programming had kept him cool and rational during the procedure itself, but the _memory_ of it made him want to scream or hit something. The ice had preserved her perfectly. She would have liked that, he thought, to his own surprise.

"Don't mind if I do," said the Doctor, with studied nonchalance. "A little privacy, if you please?"

Harry gave him an understanding pat on the back (it was beyond strange to see the little Ensign look so fatherly), moved to the far corner of the lab, and turned his back.

"Hello, Doctor," said the Doctor – and promptly found himself tongue-tied. What _did_ one say to one's past self, whom one was trying to save along with a hundred and fifty-two others?

"If you're watching this, Mr. Kim and Mr. Chakotay have changed history. With my able assistance, of course. I do hope this doesn't scramble the Temporal Prime Directive too much, because I'm sre neither of us would relish meeting Captain Braxton again … er … excuse me. Where was I?"

He cleared his throat. "Ah, yes. Last words. Well, in a nutshell – keep up the good work. And don't give up looking for a name – at this rate, I'll die a nameless EMH. And please, for the love of all that's sacred – _tell Seven how you feel._"

He aimed a glare at the recording device. "Now there's no use denying it. I'm you, remember? You love her. I didn't even realize it until I saw her – remains – and was ordered to detach her cranial implant to access the interplexing beacon. Don't you _dare_ let that happen ever again."

Harry interrupted from across the room. "No pressure, Doc, but can you hurry it up? We haven't got much _time._"

"Time," he muttered, "Right. This is – " with a last-minute stroke of inspiration, "Dr. Septimus Zimmerman, over and out."

2375:

Captain Janeway found two log entries encrypted in the telemetry of the mysterious transmission sent to Seven. They carried the Starfleet signature of Ensign Harry Kim, temporally displaced ten or twenty years in the future.

One was addressed to Harry, and the Captain was glad to hand it over as proof that his future self was a hero. The other, however, being too long, had been damaged durin the trip and could not be recovered.


	7. Infinite Regress

_7. Infinite Rregress_

It had happened. Their greatest fears were coming true.

For Seven, it was the fear of becoming weak, imperfect; losing her control over her mind and body and, lately, the individuality she had fought so hard to gain. For the Doctor, it was the fear of being helpless as his patient fell to pieces before his eyes.

Seven – or what remained of her – was strapped to the biobed, sometimes thrashing and roaring, sometimes sobbing, at other times trying to coax, threaten or bribe the Doctor to let her go. She was having a multiple personality disorder brought on by an encounter with a malfunctioning Borg vinculum, left over from a destroyed cube; it was causing the neural patterns of various victims of the Borg to crowd out Seven's own. It would have been comical, thought the Doctor, if it weren't so utterly terrifying.

"Let me go, you lousy lobeless excuse for a hologram, or the Ferengi Health Commission will – "

" – Borg cube off the starboard bow! Evasive maneuvers – "

"Mommy, Daddy, what's happening? Why am I all tied up? I'm scared!"

" – why he just won't admit it when he's wrong, those EPS relays were _clearly_ out of alignment, but would he listen to me?"

"Magnus, Annika! Where are you?"

That last call made the Doctor freeze in the middle of his scans. He made his wary way to Seven's bed and bent over her.

Her eyes were wide and anxious, her head moving restlessly from side to side.

"Pardon?" he asked. "What did you say?"

The new personality stayed put. "I'm looking for my family," she said in a trembling voice, tears shining in her eyes when she blinked. "My husband, my daughter … they're both blond, with blue eyes, she's about six years old … they should be on a ship, a science vessel – the _Raven._ Please, sir, have you seen them? The last thing I remember is the Borg … "

The Doctor almost exclaimed aloud at the strangeness of this experience.

"I'm sorry," he said, taking Erin Hansen's hand between both of his. "I don't know what happened to your husband. But I've met your daughter and she's … a wonderful person."

"Is she all right?" Ms. Hansen pleaded. "Is she safe?"

"She will be," the Doctor replied. "I promise." And he meant it with all his heart

Ms. Hansen smiled through her tears, with a radiant look he had never seen on Seven's face before. Despite the strangeness and the tragedy of the situation, her beauty almost took his breath away.

"Thank you," she whispered.

The next moment, however, her face twisted into a grimace of contempt as she yanked her hand away.

"Gul Darheel!" she spat. "Prophets curse you, is this another form of _questioning?_"

The Doctor did not take offense. Instead, he took several steps back and resumed his desperate search for a cure. If it came to a choice between risking Seven's sanity with outlandish Vulcan mysticism and losing her forever, well … perhaps Tuvok's mind-meld _was_ the only option. If only he could ask her …

Suppose he could?

"Seven," he said, holding out his hands palm-up as he approached the angry Bajoran. "Seven of Nine, can you hear me?"

"I have a name, you bastard, it's Jora Neral!"

"Seven of Nine, I know you're in there. Fight the voices, Seven – that's an order from your Emergency Medical Hologram! _Listen_ to me!"

"I don't know what the hell you're trying to pull here – "

"Computer, play musical selection "My Fair Lady, Track 23, instrumental only."

The sound of soft piano music was incongruous enough to startle even the Bajoran into silence (or perhaps he/she had simply been replaced by a new 'guest'). The Doctor began to sing, very softly, his programmed vocal skill melding with his emotional subroutines in a way that would tug at the heartstrings of any listener. He had performed this for Seven on the holodeck almost three months ago. Surely some part of her remembered …

"_I've grown accustomed to her face._

_She almost makes the day begin._

_I've grown accustomed to the tune_

_that she whistles night and noon._

_Her smiles, her frowns, her ups, her downs_

_are second nature to me now .."_

She joined in, singing in the smoky, sultry voice she had used as Mademoiselle de Neuf. Thoroughly startled (and hopeful), he dropped his next line.

"_Like breathing out and breathing in – _Seven, is that you?"

She continued as if she hadn't even heard. "_ – independent and content before we met;_

_surely I could always be that way again – and yet_

_I've grown accustomed to his looks,_

_accustomed to his voice,_

_accustomed to his … face_. Jenkins, you're off beat again, how many times have I told you? All right, everybody, take it from the top."

The Doctor shaded his face with one hand and sighed. "Oh, why bother? Computer, stop the music."

"Doctor … "

Some of the other assimilated Starfleet personnel did call him Doctor, deducing his position from his holographic uniform. But this time, she sounded so like herself – a worn-out, frightened Seven turning to him for reassurance – that he rushed to her side immediately. Painful hope flooded his emotional subroutines.

"Seven?"

Her eyes were steady as she looked up at him. Her answer gave him the most tremendous rush of relief he could remember feeling in a long time.

"Yes," she said.


	8. Nothing Human

_8. Nothing Human_

After deleting the holographic Crell Mosett, the Doctor returned to the holodeck to brood over the events of the past twenty-four hours. To have come so close to losing B'Elanna (just when she was finally her bright, plucky self again after her long struggle with depression); to be forced to rely on a Cardassian death camp doctor as the only means to save her; to have all his medical and ethical values turned inside out … it was simply too much to process.

Mosett's voice (the EMH refused to call that man 'Doctor') was still ringing in his ears. _Conscience, ethics … funny how they all go out the airlock when we need something. _He had a point, damn him. If not for the research garnered from his experiments on living sentient beings, B'Elanna would almost certainly be dead by now.

_But that doesn't make it right!_

Absently, he called up the collection of holographic data folders in which he stored his holo-photographs. To think that only a day ago, his biggest problem had been the crew's inability to appreciate "Under the Skin: Humanoid Anatomy as Art". He clicked through the images on the enormous viewscreen he had programmed. There was something so soothingly neutral about photographs; they were what they were, and being a good photographer was so much less complicated than being a moral person.

He fast-forwarded to the crew portraits, of which he was especially proud. Not all of them were embarrassing (such as Tom covered in mud or B'Elanna with her foot stuck in a plasma injector); some of them, he flattered himself, were quite lovely. Captain Janeway sniffing a pink rose in the aeroponics bay; the whole crew clustered triumphantly around a shiny new Delta Flyer; B'Elanna caught in mid-bottle-swing as she christened the ship, hair flying, an elated grin on her face; Seven looking over her shoulder _('Cease and desist, Doctor, you are impairing my concentration'_), with a glorious blue-green nebula behind her on the Astrometrics viewscreen

"I was not aware, Doctor, that images of me were included in your recent presentation," said Seven from directly behind him.

He jumped, hit the 'close' button on the console, and whirled around.

"But that's one of my best shots," he said plaintively. "It doesn't bother you, does it?"

"No. I have come to debate with you."

He sighed. Not that he minded spending time with Seven, usually … but couldn't he have just half an hour to brood in peace?

"Don't you have Captain Janeway for that?"

"Captain Janeway has had, in her own words, 'enough moral controversy for one day'."

So have I, thought the Doctor. Trust Seven to bring up the matter again in that relentless way of hers when all the rest of us just want to forget it.

"Computer, two armchairs," he said. When Seven wanted a debate, resistance was generally futile. "Is there anything in particular you would like to ask me?"

Seven sat with her usual put-upon air, as if she considered the human need to get off their feet completely absurd. "I have been considering Dr. Mosett's situation and I have come to the conclusion that his program should be preserved."

_That_ was the last thing he had expected. It stung considerably to have Seven of all people siding against him this way.

"Preserved?" he exclaimed. "I just deleted him!"

"An unwise decision," she replied, just as coolly if she were speaking about changing the lighting in one of his photographs.

"Ex-_cuse_ me?" He shot up out of his chair and began to pace, gesturing wildly with his arms. "Are you saying we should have let that mass murderer stay? That vicious, heartless, cold-blooded_ disgrace_ to the profession of healers?"

"He is a hologram!"

"So am I, in case you forgot!" He ripped off his mobile emitter and brandished it in the air, flickering slightly as his program transferred itself to the hologrid.

"You cannot hold him accountable for deeds committed by his organic template in the Alpha Quadrant."

"I most certainly can! He had the same knowledge in his database as the real Mosett, the same knowledge for which thousands of Bajorans were tortured and killed."

"Do you wish to deactivate me as well?" snapped Seven, standing up to intercept his pacing.

The Doctor's next indignant sentence stuck in his throat. He turnedtowards her; her eyes were pure ice.

"What the – what are you – " he sputtered. "Deactivate you? What the _hell_ is that supposed to mean?"

She began to pace, or rather prowl, the holodeck herself, making wide circles around the Doctor, keeping her hands clenched tightly behind her back. "Stardate 51449.2. I resuscitated Neelix after he had been dead for nineteen hours, using a technique assimilated by the Borg from Species 149 against their will. You praise me, yet condemn Mosett for similar actions. Why?"

The Doctor imagined, bitterly, that Mosett would be cackling in triumph if he were there. What could he say in his own defense? _Was_ he a hypocrite?

"No! No, this – this situation is completely different."

"Specify," fixing him with her glare like a beetle pinned to a card.

"Well, for one thing – you were Borg! You didn't _choose_ to assimilate those people, it was the hive mind talking! If anyone's to blame, it's the Borg queen, never you. Mosett acted of his own free will, which is why those actions are _completely_ unacceptable."

"In both cases, lives were saved by the application of data gathered through unethical means. If it is wrong to use such data, logic dictates I must be guilty."

"Blast your logic, you pedantic drone! This is about what's _right!_"

The moment he said that – or rather, screamed it – the Doctor was sorry. He hung his head as the sentence seemed to pulse in the air like a red alert signal.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm overreacting, aren't I?"

"I am not a drone, Doctor."

If her tone had been terse before, it was doubly so now, and her cheeks were pink.

"I understand your opinion," she continued. "Crell Mosett is a Cardassian. Since the occupation of Bajor, his species is resented across the entire Alpha Quadrant. I, on the contrary, am Human and your personal acquaintance. Hence your prejudice in my favor."

"Prejudice!" he yelped. "Is that what you call the way I feel?"

"Yes. If prejudice had not impaired your judgement, the holographic Mosett could have provided valuable assistance to this crew in the future."

"You don't understand, Seven … Taking advantage from the suffering of others only encourages people like him! They use cases like this to justify the atrocities they commit, just like the Borg and their 'quest for perfection'. I deleted Mosett to make sure we're never tempted to use his tainted knowledge again."

That silenced Seven for awhile; she watched the computer console absently, tracing the side of it with her cybernetic hand.

"Besides," the Doctor continued, lowering his voice in chagrin because he could guess just how much she'd disapprove. "I couldn't stand the sight of him anymore. I just couldn't."

"An irrational statement, Doctor."

"Well, yes! I … I _liked_ Crell Mosett at first, Seven. He was friendly, personable, brilliant in his field, he even shared my taste for music. I thought I'd found a … a kindred spirit, of a sort. And then, to realize the horrific things that man was capable of, and have him tell me I'm no different than he is – God … " He sank down into one of the armchairs with his hand over his eyes, the picture of despair.

"It was like looking into a mrror … and hating what you see."

He thought of Mosett slicing into the living flesh of the alien feeding off B'Elanna; the creature's screech of pain; the gleam in Mosett's eye as he wielded the cortical inhibitor (_'our little friend seems to be asking for more'_). Even their ways of speaking were similar.

_Click._

He raised his head reluctantly, feeling as if it weighed several bars of latinum in his distress. He found himself looking right into the lens of his own holoimager.

"Smile, Doctor," said Seven, peering out from behind it, in her usual deadpan tone.

"Stop that, it's not funny," he grumbled.

"Comply." _Click._

She handed him the device with its back to him, showing him a view of his own (unsmiling) face.

"I see a flawed, yet very admirable individual," she said, "whose dedication to his ethical principles and perseverance in his quest for perfection ensures that he will never become another Crell Mosett. I still consider you to be in error; however, to maintain harmony between us, I shall refrain from engaging you in further ethical debates on this subject."

The Doctor looked down at his own grim expression, winced, and began to smile in spite of himself.

"Why, Seven! How did _you_ learn to make symbolic gestures like this?"

"From you," she said.


	9. Thirty Days

_9. Thirty Days_

"Turn your head a little to the left, please," said the Doctor, peering around his holoimager.

Seven complied, looking like the perfect model (and feeling very silly) in a 20th-century style dark green skirt and blazer, with a black beret on top of her unbound hair and a gray carpetbag in one hand, standing on a holographic train station surrounded by steam.

As he took the picture, the Doctor thanked his lucky stars that she was in such a cooperative mood; not only was she a beauty, but she could hold a pose better than anyone else on the ship (except Tuvok, who wouldn't be caught dead modeling). The only thing she refused to do was smile, laugh or cry for the camera; she had enough trouble expressing real emotions, let alone fake ones.

"Doctor, what is the status of Ensign Paris?"

That was such a complete non sequitur that for a moment, he had no idea what Seven was taking about. _Ensign Paris? Who is that?_ Then realization hit him, and he sighed and shook his head. No wonder Seven wasn't arguing; she must be really worried about that man.

"Increasingly irritable," said the Doctor, more worried himself than he cared to admit. "When I went down to treat him after he bumped his head during that last attack. That Culhane fellow replacing him at the conn doesn't know port from starboard; I'm surprised his antics didn't bring me _more_ patients."

"Did you tell Ensign Paris as much?" Seven inquired shrewdly.

"Of course not," the Doctor scoffed, recalling with a twinge of concern the way Tom had called after him, coming as close to the brig forcefield as possible. "The man's got enough of a swelled head already. Besides, I … I'd rather have him worry about being replaced on the helm than about the ship crashing."

Seven gave him a look which _might_ be approving, but then again not. She was confoundedly difficult to read sometimes, he thought .

"Lieutenant Torres is increasingly irritable as well," Seven confided. "I cannot spend thirty minutes in Engineering without being shouted at. It is very unpleasant."

The Doctor winced in sympathy, having enough experience with the sharp edge of Torres' tongue to know what it must be like.

"As for the Captain, I believe it is only her superior rank which prevents Torres from displaying open hostility. She is most … aggressive … in the defense of her mate."

The word 'aggressive' combined with the mention of the Captain's recent behavior was a chilling reminder.

"I haven't seen the Captain so … so … _ruthless_ in quite a while," said the Doctor. "She's such a generous woman most of the time, isn't she? Always ready to give someone a second chance. It's how she got _you_ on her side. But seriously, Seven, this business with Ensign Paris … sometimes I feel as if I hardly know her."

"Captain Janeway is dedicated to the principles of Starfleet," Seven replied simply, as if that explained everything. "Paris has broken the Prime Directive."

"But he did it to _save_ that world!"

"The Moneans could have saved themselves."

"If their absurd bureaucracy hadn't gotten in the way, which you know perfectly well it would have." The Doctor threw up his hands. "She didn't throw _you_ in the brig when you beamed away that 8472 creature, did she?"

"No, she confined me to Cargo Bay Two instead."

Thinking of that particular dark, musty, lonely environment, which Seven never used for anything but regeneration if she could help it, the Doctor decided to withdraw his argument.

Seven absently watched the large clock face at the end of the station, whose minute hand had just snapped forward, as she spoke. "I do not deny that Paris' punishment is justified. Like any collective, Starfleet has rules to which every member must comply. However … thirty days of solitary confinement … that does seem rather excessive."

The Doctor couldn't help himself. Before that sad, thoughtful look could leave her face, he raised his holoimager and snapped the picture. She hardly seemed to notice, looking out into the distance at things only she could see. He guessed that she was remembering her own thirty-five days, where she had had at least his own company, the holodeck, and the rest of the ship. Still, it had nearly broken her.

The Doctor packed the instrument away in its carrying case and took several steps closer. She met his eyes with a sudden sweep of her blond eyelashes; if only he could have captured _that_ on film.

"Tom will make it," he assured her. "Out of sheer stubbornness if nothing else. He'll be busy wreaking havoc in my sickbay before we know it."

"Do you believe the Captain will forgive him?" asked Seven, who knew first-ahdn how much Janeway's resentment could make itself felt across a whole ship.

"I know she will. Second chances, Seven, remember?"

Seven nodded, looking visibly comforted in spite of the absence of a smile.


	10. Counterpoint

_10. Counterpoint_

"I do _not_ understand her," Seven snapped as she marched into Sickbay, looking as if she had a mouthful of lemon juice. The Doctor got the impression that most Humans would have thrown up their hands and raised their voices at this point; Seven's hands, locked behind her back as usual, were twitching ominously.

"What's B'Elanna done now?" he asked, half amused.

"Not Torres – the Captain!"

"Ah. I'm assuming you refer to her latest rescue mission?"

The Doctor made a face. He had scanned the group of Benari fugitives half an hour ago on their arrival; several of them (including the children) had been abused by their captors.

"Sad to say, I almost agree with you this time," he said, shaking his head. "It's a compassionate thing to do, of course, I don't deny it. But from a practical point of view, well … you've seen the way that horrid Inspector Kashyk ransacks the ship from stem to stern. Where are we supposed to hide these people? Under our beds?"

"In the _pattern buffer,_" replied Seven, her voice clearly loaded with contempt.

The Doctor gasped. "In the - ? Good gracious. But that would put them at risk for cellular degradation!"

"Exactly."

"How long would they have to stay in there? Hours? _Days?_"

"For the duration of the inspection, however long it takes."

The Doctor leaned his elbows on his desk and rubbed his face with both hands.

"Well, if we lose anyone's pattern, it won't be on _my_ head," he muttered. "I'm not the one giving orders around here. Starfleet principles, my photons! How _dare_ Janeway condemn Ensign Paris to thirty days of solitary for breaking the almighty Prime Directive and then turn right around and do it herself? I ask you! If we were in the Alpha Quadrant, I swear I'd report her to Headquarters and have her declared unfit for duty. Hypocritical, high-handed, self-righteous … "

Glowering at the white desk, he suddenly noticed a slim, cybernetically enhanced hand landing in his field of vision. He looked up and there was Seven, watching him with level blue eyes.

"I suppose I'd better not finish that last sentence," he concluded, feeling a little foolish as he always did after one of his fits of rhetoric had failed to impress someone. "It's not fit for a lady's ears, as Mr. Paris would say."

"I am conversant with the insults and profanities of billions of assimilated species, Doctor."

He snorted a laugh. "Of course. I almost forgot."

After a routine examination ("You're functioning at normal parameters, Seven; in other words, right as rain"), he watched her stalk out of the room with the same suppressed energy in which she had entered, demanding the Captain's location as she went. _Captain Janeway is in her quarters,_ said the computer.

The Doctor smirked to himself. "Computer, time?"

_The time is 24 hours and 31 minutes._

Janeway, he concluded, had better be awake enough to talk. In the meantime, while painstakingly restarting the experiments which those Devore soldiers had knocked over or stamped on in their ridiculous black boots, he began to listen to some music. Not Mahler, though. He couldn't stand another note.


	11. Latent Image

_11. Latent Image_

_(Also published as "Let Me Hear Joy")_

_The young ensign on the biobed opened her bright brown eyes and blinked wearily up at the Doctor. The burns and scars on her face were all but gone, her white skin fresh and smooth. Her brown hair shone, scattered across the pillow. _

"_Where am I … ?"_

"_Sickbay, Ensign. You've had quite an ordeal."_

"_Harry … ?"_

" … _is well on the way to recovery, as are you. He should wake up at any moment now."_

_As if on cue, a groan from Harry Kim made the Doctor turn arouind. Kim and Jetal caught each other's eye and exchanged a wry smile: they were in the same predicament._

"_You're both going to be just fine," said the Doctor._

_=/\=_

The thing about daydreams, he thought, as he sat in an armchair which was the only bit of furniture in the otherwise empty holodeck, was that if you weren't careful, they could easily morph into waking nightmares. Whenever he thought about Ensign Jetal, his thoughts inevitably spiraled out of control_ …_

=/\=

_Jetal's glossy hair was falling out of its bun, her uniform spotted with her own blood. Her face and body were pockmarked with burns from the disruptor blast. She was dead, but her brown eyes still blazed with hate._

"_You let me die!" she snarled from the biobed. "You chose to operate on Kim over me! You killed me – why? Aren't you an EMH? Aren't you programmed to save lives?"_

_The Doctor held out his hands pleadingly, but dropped them with a shudder – they were still covered in blood._

"_I have a family, did you know that? Of course not. Since I wasn't one of your precious senior staff, like Harry Kim, you hardly knew my name! I had a mother, father, and two younger brothers waiting for me on Earth. Can you look them in the eye and tell them what you did? Can you?"_

=/\=

"Doctor."

He was jolted abruptly out of his thoughts. Seven stood by the doors, eyeing him with wary concern.

"If it's about your implants, ask Mr. Paris," he muttered. "With the condition I'm in, I'll probably trigger every nanoprobe in your body."

"My implants are functioning within acceptable parameters."

"Then what is it?" He rolled his eyes.

She took three steps closer, maintaining eye contact. "You."

For some reason, that one word gave him pause.

"Computer, a second armchair, opposite mine. Have a seat."

She sat.

"Well, Seven? Did the Captain order you here?"

"No. I came of my own initiative."

"And do you have some sort of plan? A database of Borg wisdom at your fingertips? Are you going to tell me Ensign Ani Jetal's death was irrelevant?"

"No." Seven clasped her hands on her lap and looked down at them, her eyelashes flickering. "I do not know what to say."

"Then why did you come here?" he snapped.

"Because … because I wish to assist you." Her voice was low. " 'Friends help each other without needing to be asked.' You told me so."

He stood up and turned his back to her, glowering around at the bare steel hologrid.

"I wasn't programmed for friendship. I was programmed for medical care. And it seems I can't even do that right."

"You are more than your programming, Doctor," Seven said firmly. "You are a sentient being. As such, you cannot expect to be perfect. Perfection is a laudable goal," quoting his own words back at him, "But exceedingly difficult to reach."

She stood up, took him by the shoulder and whirled him around.

"You cannot save all your patients. You must accept that."

He swatted her hand away. "Of course I accept that! I'm a goddamned Emergency Medical Hologram! It's killing my patients I can't accept!"

"You did not kill Ensign Jetal."

"I allowed her to die. It's the same thing!"

"No, it is not." She placed both her hands on his shoulders and shook him – lightly, but enough to startle him.

"Your behavior is absurd!" she burst out finally. "You are not the first being in this universe to experience guilt, Doctor! Captain Janeway has violated Starfleet rules, including the Prime Directive. Tom Paris made a piloting error responsible for the deaths of three comrades. I myself have assimilated many beings as part of the Collective. None of us have abandoned our duties to indulge in self-pity in the holodeck."

The Doctor had listened speechlessly to her tirade, his astonishment and fury escalating in equal measure. Finally, as soon as she took a breath, he shouted back.

"I, indulge in self-pity? How dare you? You think I'm _enjoying_ this?"

"You always did have a craving for attention."

For a moment, he lifted up his hand as if to slap her. She caught his wrist with inhuman speed, matching him glare for glare until he lowered it. More violence, he thought bitterly, was not going to help.

He collapsed into his chair, hiding his eyes with one hand. Seven stepped very carefully up to him and, even more carefully, placed her left hand on top of his.

"That was … overly harsh," she murmured. "I apologize."

"No, Seven. You were right." He looked up and smiled at her, a weak imitation of his old lopsided grin. "Confound you, you merciless drone, you were right!"

She sat down opposite him again. "What I meant was," she began, "That the best way to … atone for one's guilt is to look to the future rather than the past. The Captain told me so."

At that, he couldn't help but be a little bit curious. Seven the counsellor – a rare sight. Did she understand whatever the Captain had told her, or was she simply quoting it back to him?

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"It means," Seven continued, "That we cannot change the past, therefore speculating about it is irrelevant. However, regardless of what we have done, we can still use our skills and strengths to benefit others."

For a moment, he forgot his own troubles entirely, lost in admiration for Seven. One and a half years ago, she would not have set foot in this room. She might even have reprogrammed him herself. But today, here she was. She really understood

"Seven of Nine," he said softly. "You are amazing."

"If I am, it is your doing." She tilted her head and watched him, her blue eyes unusually soft.

She held out one hand. "Computer, Bible, Federation Standard. Open to Psalm 51." A heavy black book materialized and she handed it to him, open at the prescribed page.

He rolled his eyes with halfhearted irritation. "Books! You and Janeway! When am I supposed to read them all?"

"Whenever you wish," said Seven.

"I don't even believe in all of that," he grumbled, holding up the Bible.

"Neither do I. However, the concepts of forgiveness and absolution are universal. Perhaps you will find it … edifying."

In spite of himself, he began to read. He enjoyed certain parts of the Bible for their forceful, yet sparing style of imagery, but he'd never bothered to truly consider the meaning behind the words. Now, however, they reverberated inside him like the vibrations of a deep gong.

_Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean;  
wash me, and I will be whiter than snow. _

_Let me hear joy and gladness;  
let the bones you have crushed rejoice. _

_Hide your face from my sins  
and blot out all my iniquity. _

_Create in me a pure heart, O God,  
and renew a steadfast spirit within me. _

"Am I a sinner, Seven?" he asked, his vocal processor cracking with the strain of many hours of screams and sobs.

"I do not believe so," she said. "However, that is for you to decide."

She sat with him in silence as he read, absorbed in the words. He did not know how long it took until he looked up and focused on her face again. What he saw alarmed him.

"Seven, your eyes are as red as your biosuit! When was the last time you regenerated?"

"Forty-one hours ago."

"Well, get to it!" He snapped the book shut and flapped it in her direction. "Shoo!"

"I do not wish to leave you."

"I won't have you hurting yourself on my behalf. Please, Seven. I'll take myself offline and you can activate me first thing in the morning, all right? Then I won't have to spend gamma shift alone."

She reached out her hand, withdrew it, and looked down at her metal-encased fingers, as if she had wanted to touch him but changed her mind. Instead she nodded. "Computer, deactivate – "

"Wait!"

She tilted her head inquiringly.

"Tell that pigheaded Captain of ours to check herself in for a physical, all right? I _know_ she was running a fever when I saw her last."

Seven 's relief was barely visible in her face, but it warmed her heart considerably. She hadn't understood the first time; she had assumed the Doctor had recovered from his crisis, and not mentioned Ensign Jetal to him out of consideration. It was only later, when they'd found the missing memories in his database – deliberately erased on the Captain's orders – that Seven had understood the full extent of her mentor's hard decision. She had been furious with Janeway after the woman compared the Doctor's existential crises to a malfunctioning replicator, and argued passionately that the Doctor should have the right to thrash it out, like any flesh-and-blood member of the crew. It seemed that now, Janeway was more than making up for her actions: staying up with the Doctor at all hours, lending books and a sympathetic ear. One couldn't be angry with her for long.

As for the Doctor, he was finally starting to sound like himself again. And if that meant fussing over her regeneration cycles, he was more than welcome to do so.


	12. Bride of Chaotica

_12. Bride of Chaotica_

When it came to Tom Paris' Captain Proton simulations, Seven and the Doctor were of one mind. He could see it as soon as he'd finished 'entertaining' her during her physical with a vivid account of his brief tenure as President of Earth.

" … they had _dashboards_, just like a twentieth-century automobile, instead of proper touch-screen consoles. And we could hardly take a step without running into Satan's robot."

Seven nodded, having had a memorable encounter of her own with that particular machine.

"The thing looks like a waste receptacle on legs, has the eloquence of a Borg drone – no offense – and the coordination of a one-year-old Human toddler. Honestly, the latter quality would have been almost endearing if it hadn't constantly gotten in the way. Especially when it drooped to the floor after being damaged by the Death Ray."

"A most ineffectual weapon," Seven agreed.

"I wouldn't have gone at all, naturally, if it hadn't been a genuine emergency. As I'm sure you are aware – "

" – the photonic intruders in the holodeck mistook the program for reality, prompting the necessity for a photonic ambassador to treat with them."

"Yes, poor Ensign Paris was somewhat embarrassed by the fact that he and the othe carbon-based life forms didn't even register on their scans."

The Doctor tugged happily at the lapels of his black coat, which he still hadn't re-set back to his uniform. "Suits me, don't you think? Black is always such a slimming color." And to finish it off, he ran his hand along the brim of his matching black Homburg hat.

Instead of answering, Seven took his arm, jabbed a few buttons on his holoemitter, and stood back as he re-materialized in his green-and-black Chief medical Officer's uniform.

"Well, in any case, this is ab-so-_lutely_ the last time I'm letting Ensign Paris drag me into his program. Why, it's ridiculous."

"Derivative."

"And _tacky_."

"And misogynistic," added Seven, remembering her very brief turn as Constance Goodheart the secretary, when Paris had tried to limit her dialogue to a scream, and her actions to being tied up and waiting for rescue. Instead she'd eliminated the pitiful Satan's Robot in five seconds and watched it collapse in the middle of the words _Surrender_.

"Heavens, yes. And this from the man romantically affiliated with B'Elanna Torres." The Doctor shook his head. "Tsk, tsk. It would explain a great deal, though, wouldn't it?"

Seven ignored the innuendo, as usual.

=/\=

It was gamma shift – 2400 hours, to be exact – when two crewmembers nearly collided in a darkened corridor on Deck Six, just in front of Holodeck Two. One wore a baggy black outfit with a shiny steel plate at the stomach, possibly a 1930's idea of a space suit. The other wore a grayscaled camouflage outfit which covered her from head to toe, as well as army boots and a backpack.

"State your purpose, Doctor," said Seven.

"You state your purpose! I was here first."

"Do you intend to run the _Captain Proton_ program? As I recall, today was 'absolutely the last time you would be dragged here'."

"As you can see, I'm not being dragged. Might I ask what inspired this choice of outfit?"

"It is more practical than a white gown with excessive cleavage."

The Doctor's jaw dropped. "You mean - ?"

"I intend to redesign the parameters of the Constance Goodheart character. It is in the interest of efficiency that _Voyager's_ crew morale remains high, and an entertainment program offensive to 47% of the crew – meaning the females – does not contribute to this task."

In spite of her Borg diction, for a moment her face lit up with quiet enthusiasm as she spoke. She reminded him of Kes, just a little … he scolded himself for being sentimental and gave Seven a hearty clap on the back.

"Seven, this is excellent! Taking an interest in fiction means you're developing your imagination – one of the most central aspects of individuality! Oh, I do look forward to what you've got planned. With certain enhancements on my part, too, if you'll allow me. Let me suggest a title; I can see it already – " He spread his hands wide as if to form a title logo in the air. "_Proton and Goodheart: The Musical!_"

He let out a gleeful cackle which would have done Chaotica proud, and caused Seven to stare at him as if he'd lost his photonic mind. He'd certainly save a backup copy of the original program … probably.

Ensign Paris would have kittens when he found out!


	13. Gravity

_13. Gravity_

"Hey Doc, ever wonder what would happen if _Voyager's_ universal translators went offline?" asked Tom Paris out of the blue.

The Doctor looked up from the test tubes he was working on, considered the question, and grimaced. "I shudder to think."

"I know, right? We take them so much for granted, it's like we don't even remember most of the time that the aliens we run into aren't speaking English." Tom shook his head thoughtfully. "Down there on that sinkhole planet, when Noss first showed up and couldn't understand a word I was saying … whoo boy! Awkward is no word for it."

"Especially when she stole the medkit at phaserpoint," the Doctor retorted, still rather miffed about spending most of the time offline as a power-conserving 'battery'.

"Don't remind me. Can you imagine how Neelix would feel if we couldn't speak his language anymore? Or even Crewman Tal – she's Bajoran and she almost failed her Starfleet English course. She depends on the UT like a crutch."

"I suppose we could ask Seven to translate, in an emergency," said the Doctor, "Though she'd hardly be pleased."

Tom chuckled. "Our Borg as a living UT? You bet your asymmetric photons she wouldn't." The smile, however, slid off his face as he caught sight of something over the Doctor's shoulder and gulped.

"I do wish, Mr. Paris, that you would stop referring to Seven as 'our Borg'; 'the drone' or similar epithets," said the Doctor frostily. "She is neither a pet nor a machine – now what?"

Looking over his shoulder, the Doctor saw Seven herself standing in the doorway.

"Ensign Paris' terminology does not offend me," she said calmly.

"See?" said Tom, with an irritating grin. "My _terminology_ does not offend her. Wow, you really do sound like Tuvok. Are you a secret romantic too, Seven?"

"Clarify," said Seven, looking nonplussed.

"You wouldn't believe the things I've learned about the good Commander on that sinkhole planet," said Tom, looking like the proverbial cat who caught the canary. He was referring to the fact that Noss, fellow crash victim and consummate survivor, had fallen head over heels in love with Tuvok. Being married, however, Tuvok had turned Noss down – in spite of the fact that he _did _care for her, and the odds of ever seeing his wife T'Pel again had been minimal. That was as much as the Doctor had been able to deduce from his brief moments online; there seemed to be another secret Tom wasn't telling, but knowing Tuvok, it was much better kept private.

The Doctor glared. "_Ensign_ Paris, if you breathe a word about Mr. Tuvok's personal life, I'll have you working double shifts for the rest of the year."

Tom had no business turning a story which the Doctor found terribly romantic (on the one hand, poor forsaken Noss; on the other, T'Pel, blessed with the most devoted mate in both quadrants combined) into a steamy batch of ship's gossip.

Tom winced and held up both hands. "Okay, okay! Sorry! The temptation's irresistible. If you knew what I knew … "

"Ignore him, Seven." The Doctor opened his tricorder with a demonstrative flip and began to question her as he scanned. "Now. Headaches?"

"Negative."

"Pain in your joints?"

"Negative."

"Regeneration cycles as normal?"

"Affirmative."

The irrepressible Tom, who had been watching with an increasingly odd look on his face, chose that moment to interrupt. "Hey, Seven? What language are you speaking anyway?"

Seven turned towards him, this time looking as much affronted as puzzled. "Clarify – that is, excuse me?" – catching sight of the Doctor's reproachful look.

"You must know thousands of languages - millions, even – from all those assimilated species. And I just realized that, with the translators here, there's no way to tell if you're talking to us in English or not. Are you?"

The Doctor found himself looking at Seven as a stranger all over again. Tom was right. How well did they really know her, when they didn't even know how she arrivated at communication with them? In what language were the thoughts underneath that golden hair? What did she sound like to herself?

"No," she said quietly, sounding different in a way he couldn't pinpoint. "My – my first language is being _Svenska _… Swedish. Language of my father."

She had an accent – an unfamiliar one, somehow harsh and soft at the same time. And that meant she really was speaking English this time, since it was the computer's standard setting and did not need to be translated. They were hearing the real Seven for the first time.

"Doctor, Ensign, you are staring at me," she said crisply, returning to Swedish – as evidenced by the translator in action, which turned her words into crystal-clear, accent-free Federation Standard English. "Please stop and return to your tasks."

They did, all the while sneaking glances at the walking enigma before their eyes. Tuvok a romantic, Seven translator-dependent; some people could behave predictably for weeks on end, yet never stop surprising you.


	14. Bliss

_14. Bliss_

The ship was quiet – too quiet. The crew lay unconscious, collapsed at their posts, dreaming of a perfect life on Earth while the 2000-kilometre-long telepathic pitcher plant drew the ship further into its digestive system. Seven peered over the Doctor's shoulder as he worked in his half-lit Sickbay office, scanning th creature and looking for ways to escape.

"Progress?" she asked, her voice sounding hesitant and unfamiliar among the silence.

"Not yet," said the Doctor, with an anxious sigh. "Well, Seven … it looks like once again, you and I are the only ones with a grain of sense on this ship."

Seven remembered the time when she had been the Doctor's only advocate after his memories of Ensign Jetal were removed; and earlier, when he had been hers after her assault by Kovin. Also, the two of them running _Voyager_ through the Mutara-class nebula with the rest of the crew in stasis. Sometimes she felt as if he were the only one on board she could rely on.

Nevertheless, she pointed out: "Naomi Wildman is here … as is K'tai."

Looking through the glass wall, she saw the little girl curled up on a biobed, taking a nap (a real one, as the sensors confirmed, _not_ a trance induced by the creature). K'tai, the gruff old alien who made it his life's goal to hunt the creature, was standing at a console running some scans of his own.

A horrible thought sudden hit her like the jab of assimilation tubules at her neck. He looked so genuine, standing there with his scraggy beard and old leather, muttering darkly as he typed … but then, the sensor readings for the so-called "wormhole" had looked genuine too. Even the letter from an Aunt Claudia … Seven had felt it in her hands … After all, she'd hallucinated an alien companion before. In the nebula.

"Doctor," she whispered, leaning in closer with her hand on his shoulder and her lips nearly touching his ear, "Can we verify K'tai's existence? The organism could be manipulating our thought patterns again."

The Doctor reached up and covered her hand with his. "I'm a hologram, remember? Neurogenic manipulation doesn't work on me. Besides … 'a servant of the enemy would look fairer and feel fouler'."

It took a few seconds until she had decoded that into modern terms.

"Doctor, this is no time for obscure literary quotations. Is it the Bible or William Shakespeare?"

"Neither." He smiled widely in an obvious attempt to cheer her up. "It's J. R. R. Tolkien, circa 1940's. Once we're out of here, we really need to broaden your cultural horizons."

His smile was shadowed by a look of intense determination in his eyes, giving the lie to his casual tone. He turned back to his console, glowering at the orange dots on the viewscreen as if demanding an answer.

_We must escape,_ Seven told herself fiercely, as she had been telling Naomi all along. _If he does not find a way … no one will._


	15. Dark Frontier

_15. Dark Frontier_

When Seven woke from her two days' regeneration, she found the Doctor standing by in front of a green cargo container, with an open tricorder and a tentative smile on his face.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

How was she feeling?

It all came tumbling back into her mind like water when the dam breaks. It had started with the Captain's most outrageous scheme yet – to steal a transwarp coil from a Borg sphere and use it to get _Voyager_ home. Instead, the Borg Queen had stolen Seven – forcing her to rejoin the Collective with the threat of assimilating the crew. If not for yet another outrageous plan of the Captain's – aided by an invention of Magnus and Erin Hansen – Seven would still be on the sphere, ordered to witness brutal assimilations including that of her own species.

"I do not know," she said.

The Doctor ran his tricorder along her jawline, slowly, almost tenderly. The Queen had touched that same spot with her cold black-gloved hands and it had made Seven's skin crawl; now it did not.

"Physiologically speaking, you're quite healthy," said the Doctor, walking around her as the instrument whirred and beeped. "It's your psyche I'm worried about."

"I will adapt."

"You'd say that if you were dying." He stepped back with a mildly reproachful eye roll. "Just like Janeway."

Captain Janeway … hers was the last face Seven had seen before she had stepped into the alcove. The older woman had looked up at her with an expression so like the Queen's, yet so different. _Regenerate now, that's an order …sweet dreams._

"I do not understand why she came to rescue me," Seven confided.

Janeway herself had only smiled mysteriously and told Seven she still had a great deal to learn.

"I betrayed her and the crew … I remained on the sphere of my own free will. She had more than sufficient reason to depart."

The Doctor shook his head slowly, a smile spreading across his vivid features. "That's why you have me, Seven. To explain. It was obvious to anyone who knows you that you'd never have gone back to the Borg on your own."

"I attempted it twice before."

"The first time was just two days after you'd been severed from the hive mind. You were still Borg, almost out of your mind with fear and confusion. The second time, you were being manipulated by that Borg beacon in the wreck of the _Raven_. Both times were almost two years ago. Since then, you've not only integrated into this crew – even, dare I say, forged certain emotional connections – but you had a chance for re-assimilation and you refused."

He was referring to her kidnapping at the hands of the alien Arturis, who had tried to get Seven and Janeway assimilated in a misguided revenge for the destruction of his homeworld.

"When One was created, you told us that _Voyager_ is your collective. And when you and I spoke about your parents' log entries, you snapped at me and walked out. You resented them for letting you and themselves be assimilated. All this showed me that there had to be more to your so-called change of mind than we thought."

He laughed ruefully. "I bent the Captain's ear until she agreed to go back for you. So did Mr. Tuvok, Mr. Neelix – Naomi even brought her own rescue plan to the Captain's desk. That child cares for you, Seven. So do we all."

Seven noted his tactful omission of Paris, Torres and Chakotay, but did not say anything. She could imagine that Paris would have missed her somewhat, but mostly as a source of amusement, and Torres would have been relieved to have Engineering to herself again. As for Chakotay … she'd prove him wrong. She'd show him she still belonged.

She remembered that eerie moment of deja-vu when she had entered the bridge and been confronted with the sight of Chakotay and Janeway watching the sphere on the viewscreen. Twenty years ago, her own father and mother had stood just like that, preparing to follow the cube which would destroy them all.

This time, she had not been helpless. This time, she had not lost them.

"I do not … resent my parents anymore," she said. "On the contrary, I am grateful to them. The biodampening field which they invented allowed the Captain to infiltrate the sphere and retrieve me."

Papa had promised to keep her safe. Twenty years later, his promise had been kept.


	16. The Disease

_16. The Disease_

_Seven, what do you think about … love?_

Ensign Kim's question, and the wistful tone in which he'd said it, had been haunting Seven for days. At the time, she'd worried that he was trying to flirt with her again, and quenched him thoroughly with a clinical comparison of love and disease. Now, she knew (as did the whole ship) that poor Mr. Kim had been falling head over heels for a Varro engineer named Tal. Now that the Varro's ship had moved on, Kim suffered from the breaking of an actual biochemical bond with Tal, even worse than human heartbreak. He had taken to doing Seven's work in addition to his own, just for killing time during his frequent bouts of insomnia.

Rumor had it (Seven did _not_ gossip, she simply couldn't help overhearing) that Captain Janeway had put the young Ensign through hell. Paris claimed to have seen them shouting at each other on the bridge. The Kim they all knew would never shout at his Captain, let alone violate protocol – but he had. And all for the sake of the phenomenon known as love.

"Doctor, what do you think about love?"

Her habitual confidant (besides the Captain, who might still be angry, or Tuvok, who was uncomfortable discussing Human emotions) lowered his holoimager and stared. He had been photographing Seven in the mess hall, with the starry space behind the wide viewports as a background, and he looked at her with such astonishment that she immediately wished to retract the question.

"Specify. – Aagh, I did it again!"

It was her turn to stare. The Doctor burst out into nervous laughter, holding his hands close to his head in a frustrated sort of way.

"It's just – I was talking to Ensign Kim the other day – details are classified – and when he expressed himself a bit too vaguely, I said to him, _Specify._ Just like that. Your brusque Borg diction seems to be rubbing off on me."

Ensign Kim again. They must have been talking about Tal and the bond; there was certainly a medical component to that. Seven ignored the comment about her diction; the Doctor was always picky about the way she spoke, which in her opinion was quite irrelevant.

"I was referring to romantic love. Doctor, respond to my query – please."

He studied her face more seriously as he placed the holoimager on one of the empty gray tables. The mess hall was dark except for their own corner, and even there the light was dimmer than usual; the Doctor was fascinated by the constrast between light and shadow on Seven's face.

"I'm afraid I don't know very much about it," he said. "It's, well, a form of pair-bonding meant to facilitate procreation. That much is a fact. But why Ensign Kim would refuse the treatment I designed for his symptoms … why the Captain, attractive and affectionate as she is, resolutely denies herself romance for the sake of protocol … why _I_ everfell in love, when I'm obviously incapable of procreation … those are all mysteries to me. I don't have the answer, Seven. I wish I had."

Seven remembered the Human idiom 'food for thought'. This was certainly a lot to digest.

"You have experienced love, Doctor?"

He turned away to watch the stars, his arms folded.

"Yes. Once. Her name was Denara, Dr. Deanara Pel. She was a Vidiian physician dying of the phage. I transferred her neural patterns into a holographic matrix while she was in a coma. The holographic Denara was … beautiful."

He sighed and cupped his chin in one hand. "Have you ever seen a healthy Vidiian, Seven? I never did, before or since. But it wasn't her chestnut hair and glowing skin I loved, really … it was her spirit. She was such a bright, witty, compassionate lady – like my young friend Kes, but more mature. I managed to halt the spread of the disease and prolong her lifespan … and I could have stayed with her and loved her for its entirety, phage and all. But she had a duty to her people to search for a cure, and I couldn't leave _Voyager._ So I let her go."

Seven reflected dryly that this Denara sounded too perfect to be true. Perhaps this attitude of the Doctor's was proof of the axiom 'love is blind'.

He smiled ruefully. "Watching Ensign Kim and his 'disease' certainly takes me back. Do you know, at first I thought my program was malfunctioning. I was in a feedback loop of Denara; couldn't stop thinking about her."

"Then you do believe that love is a malfunction?" Seven asked.

That was the collective opinion of the Borg – that love was a chemical imbalance which caused weakness. Seven was beginning to wonder if there wasn't more to it than that.

"No," said the Doctor. "It can be painful, sometimes, but it's also a source of strength. It was my love for Denara that made me let her go."

"Elaborate," said Seven quietly. She didn't understand. Was not love the desire to keep someone with you? Being separated from Tal was just the reason why Ensign Kim was suffering. Had the Doctor put himself through that willingly?

"It would never have worked between us, Seven. Denara's holographic template was degrading – she would have died if I hadn't put her back in her body. And she hated it – she hated being seen and touched in that condition. Besides, she needed to go back, to fight for a cure that might prevent her people from their terrible practice of organ harvesting.

"I've seen it often, Seven – when one person loves another, they put the other's needs before their own. And that goes for every kind of love – romantic, parental, platonic. No. Love is the very opposite of a disease … it's survival."

Seven was touched. She felt like a windchime shaken by a strong breeze; the look in the Doctor's warm hazel eyes hurt her in a way she couldn't explain. It was her first glimpse of something vast and beautiful, something which was so close to her heart and yet so impossible to understand. Her curiosity flamed into life; she had to find this out, this everyday mystery. What was love?

Perhaps she should conduct a study. Follow some of the couples on the ship (Paris and Torres came to mind), watch how they interacted with each other. Maybe then she could get a grip on this phenomenon somehow.


	17. Course: Oblivion

_17. Course: Oblivion_

Everything was coming apart. Literally.

The Doctor had found out that neither he, nor the crew, nor even _Voyager_ itself were what they believed to be. They were duplicates made of 'silver blood', a biomimetic fluid from the Y-class Demon Planet, and they were disintegrating on a molecular level. B'Elanna, newly married to Tom and anticipating her honeymoon, had been the first to die. Chakotay had collapsed in mid-argument with the Captain, pleading with her to turn the ship around and set a course for the Y-class planet instead of contining in her dogged determination to reach Earth. He had got his wish; the Captain had changed course. The question was whether all of them could live that long.

Seven of Nine, as well as Acting Chief Engineer, had also become Chief Medic as a replacement for Tom. She found herself in Sickbay more often than she cared to, dispensing painkillers and other paliative measures, disposing of the dead. She and the Doctor worked in silence, tight-lipped, with none of the lively debates and banter they could remember so well.

It was the death of Ensign Harper and her newborn baby boy, ten minutes past 2400 hours, which shattered the silence. The Doctor pulled a sheet over both, turned away, and slammed his fist into a computer console.

"It's not fair," he snarled. "It's not _right!_ We've got every bit as much right to live as the original _Voyager_ crew. Why do I have to stand by and do nothing? Why can't I save them? I'm the EMH, I wasn't programmed for this! God, I wasn't even programmed at all!"

He rounded on Seven, whose throat was too tight to answer him even if she had known what to say. All she could do was feel for him.

"And Seven, look at you. You're so fragile, the next shake of she ship could blow you away. Didn't you catch the bouquet just two weeks ago? You should have the chance to experience everything humanity has to offer – to get married, or not, as the case may be. You should have the chance to _live._"

"I do not desire pity," Seven snapped, anger giving her back something of her old spirit. She knew she looked like a Vidiian phage victim, with green splotches on her face and her hair falling apart. No worse than most of the others, though.

"Do you think I'm _pitying_ you?" The Doctor gripped her by the shoulders, his eyes intense. He was the only crewmember not disfigured; however, for a moment she felt the grip of his hands vanish as he flickered in and out.

Then he leaned down and captured her lips with his, and his arms wrapped around her to keep her from losing her balance, and heat went rushing to her face and to other startling places, and she completely forgot about how she must look –

And suddenly he was a blur again, a harsh sputtering buzz filled the air, and he was gone. She put out her hand to catch his mobile emitter. It melted through her fingers and dropped to the floor.

"Computer, activate the EMH!"

No answer.

"Computer, _respond!_"

When Neelix entered Sickbay an hour later, he found Seven of Nine – the indomitable Seven of Nine, who had never let this tragedy slow her down for a moment – curled up in a corner, looking up at him with blank, tearless eyes.

"Where's the Doctor?" he asked gently, already guessing what must have happened.

"The EMH," said Seven, in a voice every bit as cool and impartial as _Voyager's_ computer, "Has decompiled."


	18. The Fight

_18. The Fight_

"Boxing! Really!" said the Doctor, throwing up his hands in exasperation, with a glare over his shoulder at the sleeping Chakotay on his biobed. "And as if that isn't enough, boxing on a spiritual plane with aliens who live in chaotic space. _Why_ must these people get themselves into the most outlandish situations and leave yours truly to patch them up? I feel like a maid – I just cleaned up this mess, can you keep it clean for ten minutes?"

"Because you are the EMH," said Seven, looking completely unmoved by his troubles.

"There are some questions, Seven, which don't require an answer. You'll find it out in time."

Seven gave him a stare which implied that individuals were idiots and he was as bad as the rest. "None of us choose to be injured for the express purpose of annoying you, Doctor."

"Oh, of course not," he huffed, with a wave of his hand and a defeated sigh. "I wouldn't say these things if I weren't under so much stress. At least _you're_ healthy for once – according to my sensors, anyway. Please don't tell me you're hallucinating too."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he flinched. This was not a matter to mention lightly; delusions were a terror to Seven, he knew, ever since the month they had spent alone in the nebula – and later, their encounter with the telepathic pitcher plant.

"If I did not tell you, it would be an inefficient delay to being cured. However, I am as sane as any individual aboard this ship." _Which is not saying much,_ was the unspoken addition, as she held out a gleaming cybernetic hand for him to scan.

"Well, that's a relief."

He followed her hand with his eyes as she withdrew it. Really, those damned Borg implants looked more beautiful on her than they had any right to look … from a purely aesthetic standpoint, of course.

"Whatever you do," he said impulsively, "Please don't take up boxing. I can't forbid you, of course, but I'd advise strongly against it. It's a barbaric sport."

_Those hands of yours were never meant to wear gloves and bandages and smash into an opponent's face. You have the hands of a surgeon, a pianist … _

"I have no intention of doing so. Good day, Doctor." And with a firm farewell nod, Seven glided out of the room.


	19. Think Tank

_19. Think Tank_

The Doctor's first reaction to hearing that Seven had been offered a position with Kuros' group was an emphatic: "No!"

Seven was piqued. Since she had gone to him or advice, the least he could do was consider it. "State your reasons, Doctor. Why should I not go?"

He opened his mouth, closed it again, and held up his hands in that way Humans had when they were struggling for the right thing to say.

"Well – because – for one thing, we don't know anything about these people!"

"That is why I have arranged an interview with them aboard their ship. I am … intrigued by them; it would be prudent to gather as much data as I can before making a decision."

"So you haven't decided yet?" said the Doctor, with a definite sigh of relief.

"I have not."

"What did the Captain say? _She_ wouldn't trade you off to them like a spare replicator, would she?"

"She has given me the choice."

Seven was, to tell the truth, grateful for this. Even knowing the Captain as she did, part of her _had_ been afraid of being 'traded off' – after all, the crew's safety was at stake, just as it had been during her less than voluntary introduction to _Voyager_.

_You're an individual now,_ the Captain had said. _I trust you to make the decision on your own._ _If you go, make sure it's what _you_ want – not what you think is best for _Voyager.

But what did she want?

"It is a unique opportunity," she argued, thinking out loud as she paced around the Doctor's small office. "To learn, to explore, to expand my abilities … "

The Doctor looked up from his desk in hurt bewilderment. "Can't you do that here?"

"Recalibrating the deflector array in multiple variations is hardly challenging."

"Then what about our social lessons?" he shot back.

"What about them?"

"If you're looking for challenges, you've got them right under your nose. How to spend a shift with Lieutenant Torres without triggering her temper? How to play Velocity without turning it into a war? How to correct the work of that poor little sensor analyst – what's her name, Celes? – without making her cry? Those aren't challenges enough for you?"

Seven sighed. Privately, she felt that in this case, the _lack_ of challenges presented by the Think Tank in that area was part of its appeal. None of them had been at all fazed by her Borg efficiency of manner; in fact, their own ways of communication were refreshingly similar to hers. No social rituals, no 'white lies', no fear of hurting someone's feelings … they didn't need all that, because they communicated telepathically. Like –

Like a hive mind.

She dismissed the slight shiver along her spine as soon as it occurred. Irrelevant nonsense; five highly diverse individuals were hardly a hive mind.

"I need to consider this further," she said, preparing to leave. She needed a quiet place to think, preferably her cargo bay; making a decision to leave was rather hard when the person you might leave was looking up at you with such anxious brown eyes.

"Seven?" the Doctor called.

She looked over her shoulder. "Yes?"

"Don't forget," he aid softly, "That I … we … that _Voyager_ needs you. You have a place here … it just wouldn't be the same."

"I posess an eideti memory, Doctor. I will not forget."


	20. Juggernaut

_20. Juggernaut_

"Out of my _way_, Doc!"

Lieutenant Torres' shout made Seven, along with most of the other crewmembers present, look up from her console in a corner of Main Engineering. Back-lit by the pulsing blue warp core, Torres and the Doctor were facing off – the latter holding his holocamera, the former banging her hyperspanner into the palm of her hand in a way that signaled trouble.

"My dear lieutenant, you are standing in the way of Art!" the Doctor protested, making puppy dog eyes at her. "When we get back to the Alpha Quadrant, your face and this beautiful warp core might be on display in hundreds of galleries – "

"Oh, as if!" Torres rolled her eyes. "Now, for the last time, if you don't quit bothering me, I'm gonna take that thing and I'm gonna smash it on the floor. Got it?"

"You wouldn't!" The Doctor looked both horrified and contemptuous.

Another _thwack_ of the hyperspanner. "Try me."

Seven was never quite sure, afterwards, exactly what made her interfere. Perhaps, having suffered Torres' temper often enough herself, she didn't want the same thing to happen to someone she cared about. She came to stand next to the Doctor and matched Torres' glare with an icy one of her own.

"If you destroy the Doctor's camera, I shall report it to the captain."

"Seven – " The Doctor placed a placating hand on her shoulder; she shrugged it off.

"You stay out of this, Miss Perfection. It's none of your concern."

"You will not allow your volatile Klingon temper to ruin his expressions of individuality – "

In retrospect, Seven would come to realize that casting Torres' hybrid nature up to her was about the worst mistake to make. However, she had a temper of her own – and she did not want the holocamera destroyed. There were so many pictures of her on it, pictures she and the Doctor had worked on together in a spirit of friendship and creative harmony.

"I'll give you volatile!" With a snarl, Torres pushed Seven aside so hard she was knocked against the circular terminal surrounding the warp core. Torres grabbed the Doctor's camera, threw it onto the floor and jumped on it, her high-heeled boots shattering the device into a mess of metal fragments and wires on the floor.

The Doctor squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again and saw the damage, he looked away.

Torres stared down at the remains of the camera, looking just as shocked as everyone else. She raised her eyes to find that the entire engineering crew had gone silent and was watching her.

"What are you all staring at?" she snapped, a in a voice which was less steady than intended. "Get back to work!"

Turning back to the Doctor, she made a vague gesture with her hand and seemed about to say something. He turned his back to her and walked out, shoulders bowed. Seven caught up with him, put an arm around his shoulders, and tossed a final contemptuous look in the Chief Engineer's direction.

"Have you made backup files?" was the first thing Seven asked as they entered the turbolift.

The Doctor shook his head. "No, I haven't. Sickbay," he added, to indicate the direction of the lift.

"An unwise decision."

He scoffed. "How was I to know my camera would be destroyed by an unwilling subject? Ah, but you're right. If – when I replicate another one, I'll make sure to back everything up."

They stood next to each other in silence for a while, the buzzing of the lift being the only sound they heard.

"You shouldn't have brought her Klingon side into into it," said the Doctor suddenly.

"She _is_ part Klingon."

"And you're part Borg, but you still don't like having it cast up to you."

Thinking of Tom Paris' slur about 'mindless automatons' and Torres' 'Miss perfection', Seven had to agree.

"_You_ should not have persisted in photographing her against her wishes," she argued back.

"I _know_!" he huffed. "Sure, blame the hologram, if his camera gets broken and a year's worth of art is irreparably lost, it's all his fault!"

When he got like this, there was no reasoning with him. Seven waited for him to rant himself out; meanwhile, the turbolift stopped and they entered Sickbay, which seemed to have a calming effect on the Doctor.

He sat down at his office desk with a sigh and leaned his head in his hands. "Computer, play musical selection Anger Management One."

A soft piano piece began to play in the background.

"There. It's impossible to listen to Chopin and remain angry for long."

"Should I recommend it to Torres?" asked Seven archly.

The Doctor chuckled. "Heavens, no! She's about as musical as one of her hyperspanners."

Seven congratulated herself on the successful application of humor.

"By the way, Seven … "

"Yes?"

The Doctor cleared his photonic throat. "Thank you for, er, defending me just now."

"You are welcome," she replied. "I only wish I had done it more effectively."

A melancholy look came back into his eyes; she guessed that he was thinking about all those lost pictures.

"I request your presence," said Seven, "On Holodeck One, eighteen hundred hours. We can attempt to recreate certain images there."

"Without a camera?" he asked, holding up his empty hands.

"According to ship's regulations," said Seven, "Torres is required to provide you with the replicator rations for a new camera. I will ensure that she does so."

Nobody would damage the Doctor or his property in any way – not if Seven of Nine had anything to say about it.


	21. Someone To Watch Over Me

_21. Someone To Watch Over Me_

For Seven, the past few days had been a swirl of unsettling emotions, one after another. The embarrassment of being caught studying Paris and Torres. The excruciating awkwardness of her 'first date' with Lieutenant Chapman, during which she'd splattered the poor man with lobster and torn a ligament in his shoulder while dancing. And the Doctor in the middle of it all, her own reliable colleague and friend, causing sensations she had never experienced before.

His gentle hands running through her hair. His radiant smile as they sang together. Dancing to a three-hundred-year-old love song in a bar lit with golden lamps, and her heart was beating faster than it should, and she had lost track of her chronographic sequencer and given over all control, for once, to him.

She'd been so angry on finding out that he'd done it all on a bet. She had stormed out on Ambassador Tobin's reception party, and had come within inches of dismambering the man for making a drunken pass at her. Later, in Sickbay, while helping the Doctor use her nanoprobes to sober up Tobin, she'd forgiven her friend and made a discovery that changed her life.

And she had left the room a bit too rapidly, so he wouldn't look into her eyes and see the feelings that might be there.

Currently she sat alone in Holodeck Two, having left the Doctor behind in Holodeck One; presumably about to conduct a medical research simulation or maybe take a few pictures with his new holocamera. She was running Sandrine's – without characters, since she didn't want to look at dancing couples or deal with the irritating patroness just then.

"Computer, one synthale. And play 'Someone to watch over me', instrumental only."

She had given him a new tricorder. _Lesson 18: Thanks for the Memories._ It was foolish and she would never tell him, but she associated the Doctor's tricorders with every good thing about him: his medical skill, of course, but also his kindness and compassion. How many times had he scanned her with a smile, a joke, or a well-meant scolding about her health and safety?

She'd told him about half of the truth – she was giving up their lessons in dating, because there were no compatible mates for her on _Voyager_.

_He_ was her only compatible mate, and he didn't care.

_I feel as if we've grown closer … more than colleagues … we're friends._

_Friends. Agreed._

She would be the first to admit she knew almost nothing about love. Obviously it was possible for one person to feel it – that elusive 'spark' – but not the other. She might even be mistaken in discovering it in herself.

Seven raised the glass to her lips. The last time she'd tried a syntheholic beverage, it had made her feel very strange – light as a balloon, holding the Doctor for support to keep herself from floating away.

"I thought synthehol didn't agree with you."

Seven put down the glass and whirled her barstool around. Captain Janeway stood there, smiling crookedly, still in her gold-braided dress uniform.

"Haven't seen this program in a while," she said, perching on the stool next to Seven. "Let alone without the characters. And I know you didn't order that because you like the taste."

Janeway took the glass and moved it out of Seven's reach, watching her with conerned blue eyes. "What's wrong, Seven?"

That kind question was all it took to unravel the knot in Seven's throat. A tear escaped her unmodified right eye and ran down her face.

"I believe that I have fallen in love, Captain," she said.

"But that's wonderful!" Janeway smiled and put a hand on Seven's arm. "Congratulations – unless – " The smile faltered. "Oh, Seven, doesn't that person feel the same?"

"He does not." Seven could not meet those pitying eyes. "How should I … proceed?"

Janeway sighed and propped her chin up on her hands. "I admit I'd hoped this wouldn't happen until you were older … more experienced. This is one of the most painful sides of individuality – loving someone and having your love denied, for whatever reason."

Janeway turned back to face Seven again and placed a hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "You can learn from this, Seven. One can learn from just about anything if one sees it in the right way. Remember what it's like, these emotions you're feeling, so that someday when you meet a man who's right for you – and you will – you'll recognize true love when you see it, and know not to let it go."

Seven nodded, not trusting her voice to hold steady if she said anything.

"And, Seven … it goes away. Really, it does. I can't tell you when, but eventually these feelings of love and heartbreak will grow less. Someday you'll be able to work with him and see his face every day without it hurting at all."

Seven wondered whose face Janeway had in mind, to bring that strange, wistful look into her eyes. She decided it was none of her business; she'd had enough of prying into her shipmates' romantic lives.

The door chimed.

"Computer, end program. Come in," said the Captain, jumping clear of the barstool just before it dematerialized. Seven did the same.

"Kathryn, where did you – oh, hello, Seven," said Commander Chakotay, the animation in his face turning to polite indifference in mid-sentence.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I seem to have lost track of time." The Captain smoothed her uniform jacket. "And forgot to change."

"You look very nice, Captain. Now come on, I've been slaving over the replicator for hours."

The command team left the holodeck arm in arm. The Captain nodded goodbye to Seven over her shoulder, blue eyes aglow.

Seven sighed, wiped away something from her eye, marched over to the computer terminal and called up one of her simulations for a new gravimetric array. She'd had just about enough of romance for the rest of her life.


	22. 11:59

_22. 11:59_

"It's a beautiful story, isn't it?" said the Doctor.

Seven, who had been seeing antique automobiles, a candlelit bookstore and a night sky full of falling snow in her mind's eye, flinched mentally as if he had been reading her mind.

"To what story are you referring, Doctor?"

"The Captain's story, of course. The tension between past and future, preserving one's heritage and moving forward, symbolized by the meeting of two lovers." He beamed.

Seven wondered how in the universe he did that – listen to an account of something quite prosaic and turn it into something magnificent. The Captain's story had been about the contruction of an experimental self-sustaining tower, the Millenium Gate, and how it was made possible by engineering consultant Shannon O'Donnell's persuading Henry Janeway, a recalcitrant bookstore owner, to sell his property one minute before midnight on New Year's Eve, 2000. They had gone on to marry, have several children, and live to a ripe old age together. Two seemingly incompatible people … and yet they must have loved each other very much.

"They are not fictional characters, Doctor," she replied acidly. "You have been listening to too many operas."

"You haven't a romantic bone in your body, Seven," said the Doctor, shaking his head.

Seven gritted her teeth. If he only knew! A week ago, she would have had no problem discussing the subject of love with him. A week ago, she hadn't had so much to hide.

"I have been researching my genealogy as well," she said, changing the subject, not noticing until it was too late how awkward an attempt it was. "One of my ancestors was a prizefighter named Sven Hansen, known as Buttercup."

The Doctor laughed, as she had hoped he would. A beautiful laugh "Buttercup, really? Oh, my. That would certainly explain that competitive streak of yours."

"I am competitive because I was Borg. My goal is perfection."

"Well now, you organics never know exactly how much of you is due to genetics and how much to the circumstances of your upbringing."

They continued to debate genetics, and Seven felt an unaccountable sense of relief. They could still do that, and it was still an absorbing pastime. And meanwhile, she found herself watching the play of motion in his face and hands as if she'd never seen him before.

She hadn't realized how much love _changed_ things, nor how other things could stay so resolutely the same. It was as if she had woken up in some alternate universe; she couldn't quantify it or describe it, but it was there, and it was making things awkward.

She recalled a quote from an old newspaper article she had unearthed in a Ferengi database, of all things. There had been an interview with Shannon O'Donnell in it. Regarding her decision to speak to Henry, she had said: _I was stuck in the future, he was stuck in the past. So I said to him, why don't we try to get unstuck in the present?_

Such a wide gulf between them, time itself, but they had overcome it. If only her own story could have such a happy ending.


	23. Relativity

_23. Relativity_

Seven hated temporal anomalies. Trust her to wind up on a starship with a marked tendency for attracting them. She had been snatched away from _Voyager_ five hundred years into the future, chased a renegade timeship captain across three time frames, spoken with a past Captain Janeway who didn't know her and gone eye-to-eye with her own alternate self.

She had a terrible headache. This would never have happened in the Collective.

"There," said the Doctor, pressing a hypospray to her throat. "That should clear it up in a few minutes. Meanwhile, I suggest you eat and drink something, or at least take one of those nutritional supplements. You look … is everything all right?"

"Yes," she fibbed.

"You're not having another episode of sensory aphasia, are you?"

"No." Not now that she wasn't being dragged through time anymore.

"Then what's wrong? Seven, you know you can always talk to me if something troubles you."

Keeping secrets was a new experience for Seven, and one she did not enjoy. She already had one secret; now here was another, dumped onto her without so much as a request for permission. Granted, she was relieved to have saved the ship, and she did have the Captain to confide in; despite the dire predictions of Captain Braxton, her mentor had proven to be a great help.

It simply didn't feel right to have had such an extraordinary, mind-bending, life-and-death adventure without being able to share it with her best friend.

There was, however, one thing she could share.

"Doctor?"

"Yes?"

"Would you photograph me in a Starfleet science uniform, with my Borg implants disguised?"

Her other self had looked so ordinary that way; nothing but a young Human woman. It was like catching a glimpse of herself as she might have been: an Ensign Annika Hansen, unencumbered by Borg implants or Borg memories.

"That's … not a bad idea," said the Doctor, his eyes beginning to light up. "You know, I've always wondered what you'd look like, a hundred percent Human. The road not taken. Fascinating. Sometimes I do believe you have the makings of an artist in you."

Seven looked down at her cybernetic hand and tugged at the sleeve of her dermoplastic suit, carefully storing the compliment in her memory. Let him think of her as creative if he wanted. She knew better.


	24. Warhead

_24. Warhead_

"We've got to stop meeting like this," said the Doctor, bending over Seven as she opened her eyes.

She looked up at him from the biobed and reached out an unsteady hand. "Doctor … is it really you?"

"Yes, it's me. The weapon is … gone." He took her hand between both of his for a moment, then let go.

The Doctor's program had been hijacked for several hours by a sentient (and very stubborn) weapon of mass destruction which he had rescued from a deserted planet. The weapon had proceeded to take _Voyager_ hostage and force the crew to transport it to its target; if it hadn't been for Ensign Kim's equally stubborn adherence to Starfleet values, plus the discovery that the war had ended three years ago, _Voyager_ would be floating around in pieces by now.

"Now who's been mucking around with a dermal regenerator here?" the Doctor said lightly, using the same instrument to erase her 'injuries'. "Those plasma burns wouldn't fool a first-year medical student."

"Neelix," said Seven. "A ruse … to get me to Sickbay. I was to use my nanoprobes to disable the weapon … while Commander Tuvok … disrupted your – _its_ holomatrix."

"And you went into neural shock," the Doctor concluded, feeling disgusted with himself as he read the results of his scanner. "Seven, what have I done? If I hadn't convinced Ensign Kim to beam that thing aboard … "

"It is in your nature … to assist the injured. Do not blame yourself."

"My nature? Hmph! You mean my programming."

At times like these, the Doctor felt sick to death of being a hologram. Of what use were sentience and free will if a push of a button could take them away? If another intelligence could grab hold of your body and mind as easily as he himself held that dermal regenerator, and force him to do things he'd never do in his right mind?

"Do not argue with me, Doctor, or … I shall become agitated," said Seven, the merest glint of humor in her blue eyes. "That would be detrimental … to my recovery."

"Of course, of course." He smiled in spite of himself. "I will comply, Seven of Nine."

His memory files gave him a sudden jolt; something about the sight of her on that biobed, perhaps, combined with the fact that the weapon had been made of the same technology as the new power nodes for their replicators. He went over to the replicator in Sickbay, ordered five yellow roses in a vase, and placed them on the computer terminal beside Seven's bed.

She raised herself up on her elbos, with his support, and sniffed. "Thank you, Doctor. They are … aesthetically pleasing. But you do not replicate flowers for every convalescent in your Sickbay."

"Oh. Er, that's not why I did it. I just remembered … it's your anniversary, Seven."

She blinked. "Explain."

"It's been two years to the day since you took on your first duty shift as a regular member of this crew. It's a milestone in your development. Two years and you've not only regained your individuality, evaded the Borg and saved the ship countless times, but you've grown into a brilliant, strong and kind-hearted woman … a woman I'm proud to call my friend."

Seven lay back down on the biobed and closed her eyes, either too tired or too overwhelmed to respond … but not before darting another glance at the roses.

"Ah – as you can see, they're yellow," the Doctor hurried to explain. "It's only red roses that symbolize – ahem – romantic love. _Rosa rubifolia,_ as you would call them. Seven? Can you hear me?"

No response. He backed away, decideding that there would be plenty of time later to explain about the roses. He only hoped she'd heard his speech.


End file.
